The Hardest Part
by Sky Writes
Summary: Neal and Peter have a hard time moving forward after Elizabeth's kidnapping. Things get worse when a bank robbery case brings up questions about Neal's father and a friend from Neal's past shows up.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** The Hardest Part

**Summary:** Neal and Peter have a hard time moving forward after Elizabeth's kidnapping. Things get worse when a bank robbery case brings up questions about Neal's father and a friend from Neal's past shows up.

**Spoilers:** This takes place Post-Checkmate.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own White Collar or its characters.

* * *

><p>Peter had never felt so exhausted before 9 PM. After having been awake for more than twenty-four hours, after fighting to save his wife's life- and the life of his friend, he was ready for some sleep. As he pulled back the covers of the bed it dawned on him how tired he truly was, after spending the day pretending as though he was okay. Elizabeth stood at the end of the bed, watching him with empty eyes. Though she looked tired, she also looked as though she might never be able to close her eyes again.<p>

"Are you sure you're okay with staying here?" Peter asked. "Your mom offered-"

"No," Elizabeth said, shaking her head, "god no. The last thing I need right now is my mom criticizing me for letting myself be put in danger, and you would not want to hear the things she's been saying about you."

With a half-hearted smile, Peter considered that El was probably the only person who would actually avoid talking to their parents after being kidnapped.

"Right. Your mom, not our number one fan." Outside the wind picked up, and Elizabeth shivered as a soft roar of thunder shook the house. "El..."

He crossed over to the other side of the room and placed both his hands on her arms. To no success, he tried to get her to meet his eyes, but El just looked way, obviously fighting to not let even the smallest tear escape. She had been so strong today, and to anyone else it would look like the entire ordeal hadn't bothered her. But he knew that was only her way of coping; she never let herself appear weak.

"It's okay," he said, "El, look at me." At last, she did. And there were the tears. "You've been through a trauma. You don't get training for this. There is no rule book. No one's going to judge you for how you deal with this."

Elizabeth just kept shaking her head and broke away from him. Facing the window as the rain beat down hard, she gazed outside as she gathered her thoughts. He waited, patiently, though the anxiety of wanting to help her was growing. When it was obvious that she wasn't going to answer him, he pleaded:

"Please, Elizabeth, talk to me."

She stepped beside her, joining her in gazing at their reflection in the glass. He was horrified by what he saw- he had never seen Elizabeth so fragile.

"I can't believe I let him take me," Elizabeth admitted, "I should have been able to stop him. I'm an _F.B.I. agent's wife_. Why wasn't I able to defend myself?"

"Say what you want, but I think even Stephen King would be impressed by your escape plan," he joked. She didn't laugh. "You were brilliant, Elizabeth. No one blames you, no one would _ever_ blame you. I'm an _F.B.I. agent_, and look at all the trouble I've gotten myself into. Sometimes bad things happen to the best of us. What's important is staying strong, and you, Elizabeth, are the strongest person I know."

This earned him a small, gracious, smile from Elizabeth. As she crossed her arms, she gazed at him through the glass. She allowed him to wrap his arms around her, and he held her close, thankful that he had been able to get through to her.

"You were cute in your army camouflage," she admitted, "and I heard you made one pretty impressive bad guy."

"Neal told you about that?" Peter said, horrified.

Elizabeth laughed a little.

"Stealing National Guard trucks, fooling the NYPD?" She said. "I think Neal's becoming a bad influence on you."

He was horrified that the very thought would cross her mind- whether she was joking or not.

"Even Neal hated having to do that," he said.

Lightening illuminated the room just as another round of thunder ripped through the air. Elizabeth jumped away from his arm, and even Satchmo ran into the room and hid beside Peter. Elizabeth bent down and hugged the dog, clinging to him as though the two understood what each other was going through. Satchmo just panted; his eyes were wide and watering in despair; Peter closed his eyes and sighed. Keller had even traumatized the dog. There was only one way any of them were going to be able to get any sleep tonight.

"This isn't going to work," he announced.

* * *

><p>An hour later, Neal opened the door on the second knock. His eyes turned immediately to Peter, who nodded towards Elizabeth and Satchmo, who hadn't left their side since the storm began. Elizabeth offered Neal a smile, but even though she was again pretending like nothing was wrong she looked tired enough to prove she was lying.<p>

"Hi Neal," Elizabeth said quietly.

"Hi Elizabeth," Neal replied, confused.

He looked to Peter for help. Peter hesitated, feeling ridiculous now that he had gone through with his idea. But the hallway was freezing, and he felt like he might fall over if he didn't get some sleep soon.

"Can we stay the night?"

Neal looked from Peter, to Elizabeth, to the dog, obviously shocked that Peter was coming to him for help. Nevertheless, either out of kindness, or perhaps desperation to get back to sleep, Neal nodded.

"Yeah, sure."

He let them in, and Satchmo immediately dashed beneath Neal's bed.

"Even the dog couldn't sleep?" Neal teased.

"We felt bad about leaving him," Peter admitted, "are you sure you don't mind?"

"Well I'm definitely not going to make you drive back home in this," Neal said, waving a hand towards the rain outside, "seriously though, it's not a problem. You two can even have the bed if you want."

"No, we're fine," Peter said, "we came prepared."

He held up the sleeping bags and pillows he had fished out of the closet, stored away for a weekend of camping they hadn't gotten around to yet.

"Right," Neal said, "well, help yourself to food or whatever."

"Thanks, but I think we'll just go straight to sleep," Peter replied.

Three hours later Peter lay awake in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling, hands crossed behind his head. Elizabeth was sleeping soundly beside him, or at least pretending to sleep, but despite his exhaustion he couldn't sleep himself. His mind wondered, his body was shaking, and his eyes were wide open as though subconsciously he was ready to jump to their defense at any moment. Once the room had gone dark and silent, Peter couldn't shake the feeling that they were still in danger. F.B.I. instincts tended to be hard to leave behind once he got home, and after a day like yesterday he should have known it would be hard to adjust to normality again. He had tried to move on, tried to act like he was strong enough to overcome this, but at the end of the day he was still left with that haunting moment of finding out his wife had been taken. The desperation of needing to save her, of knowing that he had let her be put in danger and that she could be hurt, had still not left him. Guilt was slowly taking over, creating a cold anxiety that shook him to the bone.

Though he was alone in his thoughts, he still sensed the presence of someone else being awake.

"Are you asleep?" He asked to no one in particular.

"Nope."

Peter couldn't help but to feel relieved when Neal replied.

"Are you?" Neal asked.

"Nope."

"Rain's stopped," Neal commented.

"Yup."

Now he wished he hadn't said anything. Now Neal would want to know why he was awake in the middle of the night, looking for someone to talk to. He would also want to know why they had come running here to hide, like children wanting to sleep in their parents' bed.

"Is Elizabeth asleep?" Neal asked.

Peter turned to his wife, who looked convincing enough to him. He smiled as he watched her sleep, listening closely as she breathed.

"Yup," he said.

"Good."

Silence. Then it dawned on him: Neal hadn't been able to sleep either.

"I think I heard Satchmo eating something," Neal said, "hope it wasn't a rat."

The thought was disgusting, but Peter ignored him, knowing Neal was avoiding what they both weren't wanting to talk about. At last, Peter sighed.

"I can't sleep," he said, "want a drink?"

He knew Neal was smiling as he replied:

"Thought you'd never ask."

* * *

><p>The warm night air felt comforting as he accepted the glass from Neal.<p>

"Cheers," he said, turning then to the city before them.

Arms resting against the rail, Peter watched as the city lived on. Lights were still on in some of the office buildings. In the distant streets, car horns impatiently sounded off like trumpets in a marching band. But it was peaceful, somehow, and deep down he knew why: it was normal. That was why real estate agents would say that a view was worth more than money could ever buy. The city that lived on before them would always be there, exactly the same every day, waiting for them to join in.

"I've been trying to decide how this view looks best," Neal said, "sunset, sunrise, nighttime, or during a beautiful sunny day."

"It's priceless, no matter when you're looking at it," Peter admitted, "this is the kind of view people in New York live for."

"I know," Neal said with a smile.

Neal took a sip of his wine, but then the glass just lingered motionless in his hand, as though he really didn't care about it. Peter watched him, waiting for him to say what was on his mind. But like Elizabeth, Neal seemed reluctant to talk about what they had been through. He then noticed Neal scratching at the cut on his head, and Peter remembered to ask:

"How's your head?"

"Fine," Neal said without thought, "how's the eye?"

"Fine."

He was used to black eyes, cuts, and bruises. It was the stories behind them

that were painful. Sighing, Peter's eyes traveled up to the cloudy night sky. Somewhere out there, Keller was standing underneath the same sky, swimming in bottles of champagne as he laughed with pride over his own cleverness.

"Where do you think Keller is right now?" Peter said.

Neal shrugged.

"Waiting somewhere to be taken out of prison," Neal said, "or more likely, sitting in some fancy hotel, trying to decide which island to buy. That was supposed to be my island. My fancy hotel. Hell, I could have bought a whole chain of hotels."

He then shook his head.

"I don't mean that," Neal continued, "I just hate to see him get away with it. I know stealing the treasure was wrong, but at least with Mozzie the money would have been in good hands. He would have probably opened up a whole neighborhood of orphanages in Detroit. Keller will probably buy a casino somewhere."

Neal glared at the ground below them, and Peter looked away, out of respect. Somehow, as angry as he was at Neal, as disappointed as he was, he still somehow felt sorry for his friend. Somehow, he sympathized with how important that treasure was to Neal and Mozzie and how it would have changed their lives. But he would never admit this to Neal.

Exhaling deeply, Neal cleared his throat.

"Peter, there's something I need to tell you," he said.

Peter closed his eyes. He didn't want to hear this. Neal's voice shook with the guilt of a man who had been hiding a secret for far too long, but Peter already felt that he had been betrayed enough times for one week.

"Neal, no," Peter said at last, "no, Keller confessed. We can just move on."

"No, Peter-" Neal held a hand up to him to catch his attention, "this is serious."

They looked each other in the eye, and Peter swallowed. Neal's guilt scared him; he was about to hear something that would be hard to forgive. Again. But at that moment, Neal's hand shot to his head. Eyes closed, Neal doubled over in pain, stumbling back a few steps. Peter held onto Neal's shoulder, catching him before he could fall.

"I'm fine!" Neal insisted, pushing Peter away. Neal shook his head and then look around, regaining awareness of where he was. "Nothing I can't handle."

Before he could finish his sentence, Neal stumbled back again, falling rather ungracefully into a chair. He held his head in his hands for a moment, and then shook his head as though shaking the pain away.

"Sorry," Neal muttered.

"Don't be."

Peter sat down across from him. He realized that he was studying Neal like he was a suspect, and the patio was an interrogation room. _Neal is a suspect, _he reminded himself. If it wasn't for Keller's confession, Neal would probably be in prison right now. The range of crimes, both large and small, that Neal might have

possibly been responsible for was mind-blowing, and Peter knew that if he looked hard enough he would find a reason to get Neal into trouble anyway. But now, Neal looked as though he wanted to save Peter from that trouble altogether. After letting out a long sigh, Neal finally spoke again. He looked Peter straight in the eye, like a son ready to apologize to his father.

"I broke into your house, Peter. I got into your safe and got a copy of the manifest."

Neal didn't break eye contact, even as Peter's eyes grew dark and angry. He felt like knocking the table over; he felt like shouting. But Elizabeth was still asleep inside, and truthfully he was desperate for what Neal said to be a lie.

_"You did what?"_

Neal swallowed, and although he maintained composure his hand began beating rapidly against the table.

"Back when we were still planning on selling the treasure, we needed to know how much you knew," Neal continued, "we knew that if we sold something that was on the manifest you would have found out immediately."

"Damn right I would have!" Peter exclaimed. "What the hell were you thinking, Neal? When was this?"

Now Neal looked away, with the sad eyes of a guilty puppy.

"That night you called me and offered to talk," Neal said, "I'm sorry, Peter, I should have told you everything right then."

Peter sat back, arms crossed, now reminding himself of his father when he was a teenager. Those glares he would get, the way his father could make him feel like a failure just by _looking_ at him, seemed way too familiar at the moment. He

hated having to be in this position, but he hated even more that Neal put him in it.

"But you didn't," Peter said, keeping calm, "because now you had to decide."

"Should I stay or should I go?" Neal said, completing his sentence.

"Even after that, you were still considering running?"

Neal looked at him, as though oblivious as to how Peter couldn't understand.

"It's more complicated than that, Peter."

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Peter looked instead to the night sky and noticed the clouds thinning out. He remembered standing here with Neal, not all that long ago, as they confessed the stories of how they met, as Neal told him all about the beginning of his life of crime. Maybe it was time that he learned more.

"Then tell me," Peter said, "we've got a long way to go until the sun rises."

Neal studied him, uncertain, before replying.

"You're giving me full immunity?"

Peter nodded.

"I want to know everything, Neal." Neal shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with the thought. "I'm not asking you to let me read your diary or anything. I just want to know what led you to this...this life. What pushed you down this path."

"Peter, we're friends, and I respect that," Neal began. Peter had to laugh. "I do! But there are some things, some things even Mozzie doesn't know. There are some things that I try to forget. But the treasure, Keller, it's not all a result of some traumatic childhood experience or anything. I think you have the wrong idea here."

"Do I?" Peter said. "Seems to me that a con man that goes in this deep, that's willing to risk everything- _everything_ for something as grand as the greatest collection of stolen treasure ever discovered, has to have some kind of motive." Neal still hesitated. "Look, Neal, I'm saying this is a friend. I'm saying this because frankly, I'm hurt. Elizabeth's been hurt. And I just want to know _why_. That plane that was so conveniently waiting that day with Jones' case, that was you two, wasn't it? How the hell did you even pull all this off?"

To his surprise, a grin spread across Neal's face.

"Admit it," Neal said, "you're impressed."

"Maybe I am," he admitted, "but that doesn't make me any less angry. Less _disappointed_."

Despite how angry he was, it was true that he couldn't help but to admire

how clever Neal and Mozzie were. They were truly a great team, and it would be amazing to see what they could do if they were on the right side.

"I'm serious, Neal," he continued, "pretty soon there's going to be a hearing, and it's going to be more in depth and tougher than any trial you've had to go through. They're going to question you, they're going to question me, and they're going to completely analyze your entire character. You're going to have to get used to admitting your faults and the fact that you betrayed me. This is going to be hard, on all of us. So I have to know if you're ready. Neal, if there's any part of you that would still rather be out there, selling that stolen treasure and buying private islands, _I have to know_."

Neal looked away, angry and frustrated, but Peter didn't care. The more he considered his own words, the more he realized what a risk he would have to take to keep protecting Neal. His career was on the line with this. If he lied for Neal, if he bent the truth in even the slightest way, and they found out, he would be finished.

Head collapsed in his hands, Neal sighed and then rubbed his hands over his face.

"Being a con man, it's like an addiction," Neal admitted, "you surround yourself with good people, and you might have a fighting chance of giving it up. But then there are people like Mozzie, people who you still care about even though they keep you holding onto this horrible life, and you just can't...you can't let go. I would have lost either way, Peter. You or Mozzie. New York or freedom. And even still, no, I don't know if I can give all that up. I feel like I'm in too deep, like I've been hiding from a school bully, and it's inevitable for the past to catch up with me. As much as I want to let go of that life, it's still apart of me, just like the

F.B.I. is apart of you."

"No!" Peter exclaimed, slamming his fist onto the table. "The F.B.I. is something I had to work _hard_ for. The White Collar division wasn't just something that someone decided would be fun to try. I had to fight for this job, and I'm damn proud. I've done a lot of good, and I wouldn't trade this life for the world. Not for my own island, not for casinos or fancy hotels. Nothing. A life of crime, that's a choice. At one point in time you stood there, with two roads in front of you, and you chose the wrong road."

"And yet it's the road that led me to meet Kate and Mozzie, and I refuse to regret that," Neal said. He looked offended, but Peter still had a hard time understanding why Neal couldn't reason with this. "It's the road that led me to you, to Elizabeth. Do you really think fate would have allowed us to meet any other way?"

Peter shrugged. He hadn't considered that, and he wouldn't admit that the thought of never meeting Neal bothered him. He knew he was supposed to be supporting Neal's freedom, but even he knew that if it wasn't for Neal's crimes they never would have become friends. But recently, with the kidnapping, with finding out about the treasure, that friendship was looking more and more like it just wasn't meant to be. Finally he settled with an answer that made all of this okay:

"But that doesn't mean that you can't _change_," Peter said. "Maybe you met me, Elizabeth, and hell even Mozzie, so that you can see reason and stop living this ridiculous life of crime. You impress people by stealing their most prized possessions. You take pride in being a thief, in being successful at hurting other people. You're not violent, Neal, but you still effect people's lives in negative ways."

Neal shook his head, obviously still reluctant to let go of his belief.

"You just don't understand," Neal said quietly.

He left Peter with that. As much as Peter had hoped for a further confession, he had a feeling that this was as far as they were going to get tonight. 24 hours without sleep was slowly turning into 48, and the minute he relaxed he remembered how completely exhausted he was. Neal looked just as tired; and Peter also worried that a fight like this could be the beginning to the end of whatever trust was left between them.

Standing up, Peter placed a hand on Neal's shoulder.

"Get some sleep, kid," he said. "We both need it. This is the hardest part- surviving, deciding, being able to live with yourself. But you gotta decide, Neal. If I'm going to stand up for you, if I'm going to keep putting my job on the line for you, you have to be ready to give up this life. Completely."

Neal didn't say anything, instead he simply followed Peter back into the apartment. But before they stepped inside he finally spoke up:

"Peter-" Neal turned towards Peter, stopping him just before they reached the door. With haunted eyes, full of desperation, Neal was begging to be listened to. "I'm sorry."

Peter wanted to be able to accept this, wanted to be able to admire the fact that at least Neal had confessed to him about the manifest even though he didn't have to, but he knew this was a lot deeper than a simple apology. But he didn't have the heart to tell Neal that right now. Instead, he simply nodded.

Defeated, Neal opened the door and within minutes, they were each back where they had been a couple of hours ago- in the dark, in silence, realizing that they still would not be able to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Thanks for reading!

**Chapter Two:**

* * *

><p>Neal took a deep breath as the elevator doors opened . He felt like he was entering into a new era of his time with the F.B.I. as he stepped into the White Collar office. He could feel the wondering eyes follow him as he walked towards Peter's office, where Peter was gazing out his window, as though trying to make a painful decision. Neal swallowed, trying to hide his nerves as he wondered if Peter still intended to keep the secret about the treasure.<p>

Peter jumped when he knocked on the door.

"Hey," Neal said, carefully.

"Sit down, Neal."

Failing to hide his surprise, Neal obeyed as he watched Peter closely. He felt like a kid who was about to get yelled at for sneaking out of the house.

"Am I grounded?" He joked.

Now that he was closer he saw how nervous Peter looked.

"Peter?" He asked, hoping to get isome/i kind of reaction out of him.

Instead, Peter began placing a set of crime scene photos on the desk. They were of a local bank, where a safety deposit box had been broken into. Box 106B.

"A bank robbery?" He said.

Peter nodded.

"The robbery occurred at 6 AM this morning, just as the bank was opening. A masked gunmen held the manager by gunpoint and demanded to be led to this specific safe."

Neal examined the picture of the safe closely. The box looked about as big as a P.O. box. Whatever was inside it could not have been very large- though he knew very well that size did not determine value.

"What was in the safe?" Neal asked.

"Until last night, 2.5 million dollars," Peter replied. Neal whistled, impressed that such an amount would just be sitting around in an average civilian's safe. "Someone withdrew the entire amount and replaced the money with this postcard. This is all our robber found this morning."

Peter placed a plastic evidence bag in front of him. Inside was a post card of the Golden Gate Bridge. A pit fell in his stomach at the site he hadn't seen in so long. Somehow, he already knew what this was about and the thought made him want him to turn and run for the door. This was why Peter had looked so nervous about talking to him. But Neal forced himself to turn the postcard over, and his heart leapt when he read: _1987_.

"Neal-" Peter sat down across from him. Though he knew Peter was wanting to make eye contact, Neal refused, his eyes locked onto the date on the postcard. "The box belonged to an Anthony Caffrey."

"My father," Neal replied, without thinking.

An empty silence swept over them as his mind went into overdrive. His father, who had been dead for twenty-five years._ Twenty-Five years_. Had it

really been that long?

"Peter, my father's dead."

Peter studied him for a moment; for once he looked like he didn't know how to handle the situation, and Neal didn't know what to tell him.

"This safety deposit box has been kept open for 25 years," Peter finally continued, "did you know about it?"

He could only find the strength to shake his head. The postcard fell from his hands, and as it fell on the table a loud echo seemed to reply, though the room was still silent. Briefly he dropped his head into his hands, trying to keep calm. When he looked up, Peter was studying him, a mix of sympathy and determination. He knew Peter was wondering if Neal would be telling him the complete truth.

"No," he finally admitted, "I swear, Peter, I never knew about this. I didn't know that my father had any kind of money at all. I knew the stuff he was into, but I assumed his death would be connected to a pile of debt."

Neal looked Peter in the eye, trying his best to convey that he was telling the absolute truth. His father was a subject that he didn't exactly like to discuss. Since moving to New York he had even learned to pretend that his past was all a dream; that the disappointment, the horror, of knowing the kind of person his father was, was not true. The further he distanced himself from California, the more he was able to fool himself that he had a perfectly normal past.

"I didn't look into his past because I wanted to talk about this with you first," Peter said, "we have a suspect to interview, and they might have something to say about this that you won't like. I just wanted to give you the chance to talk to me first."

"Maybe it was just a coincidence," Neal pointed out, "someone legally withdrew the money, right? Maybe they just made the right decision since obviously someone was planning on taking it. But there was no real harm done. No one was hurt, no money was istolen/i. Is there really a reason for this robber to even be in F.B.I. custody?"

To answer him, Peter threw a stack of papers in front of him. As Neal lifted the first page he noticed lists and lists of crimes committed by one 'Andrea Sheppard'.

"We think it's an alias," Peter said, "but she is wanted for more than a dozen white collar crimes, and that's just from the past 6 months. The Germans are on our backs because apparently she stole some museum artifacts and sold them to the Russians."

"A risk taker," Neal commented, impressed, "obviously she has connections, then."

"What she has is 2 million dollars worth of stolen history."

Neal sat the papers back down and began trying to connect everything together. A young, amateur art thief going after some money that even he didn't know his father had.

"What is someone who has done deals with the Russians doing stealing cash in New York?" Neal wondered out loud.

Peter began collecting the paperwork as he said:

"That's what we're going to find out," he paused for a second, noticing that Neal was hesitant to agree. All of this had happened so fast; he wasn't sure if he was ready to open up the past. "If you're up for it. This is going to get personal, Neal, and if it's too much for you then I completely understand if you want to stay out of this one. In fact, Hughes might prefer it. But there's no doubt that you could provide us with information crucial to the case."

Sighing, Neal wanted nothing more than to agree with Hughes and back out of the case. Perhaps hiding in his apartment for a few days would allow the world enough time to piece itself back together. Only days ago had Keller kidnapped Elizabeth and tried to kill him. Handling a case about his own

father on top of this was truthfully too much. But he would never admit to it-

and Neal could never let Peter work on a case that would allow him to look into his past on his own.

"You can't get rid of me that easily," Neal said, attempting a fake smile. Peter didn't look too convinced, but he gave an appreciative nod.

Neal followed Peter as he led him towards an interrogation room

"Miss Sheppard, is it?" Peter said as they approached the suspect. "Or is there another name you would prefer?"

"Megan."

The name fell from his mouth before he realized he was speaking. For a moment time froze as he lingered by the door, too in shock to take another step forward. Neal was aware of Peter staring at him, perplexed, and aware that Megan leapt from her seat as soon as their eyes met.

He still recognized her, all 5 foot 3 of her, even through the fake blonde hair and the fact that her eyes were now brown and not blue. She was as pale as ever, especially after obviously being away from the coast of California for so long. The jeans she wore were rugged and faded, and between that and the t-shirt that was two sizes to big Neal had the feeling that she wasn't earning much for her part in the art thieves.

She had a partner, and a partner who was seriously taking advantage of her. Maybe she had even gotten in over her head in a bad situation.

_"Neal."_

His name rolled off her tongue through tears, which she failed to control. She approached him, looking as though she wanted to throw her arms around him, but when he looked down he noticed the cuffs preventing her from doing so.

"You're working with the F.B.I.?" She said.

"You're an art thief?"

Leaving Peter in a confused silence, they gazed into each other's eyes, and at that moment Neal wanted nothing more than for what she said to be the truth. He didn't want her to know the kind of person he had really become.

"Art thief?" She repeated. "No, Neal, they've got it all wrong!"

An angry Peter stepped between them, glaring at Neal. He swallowed, realizing how much more complicated this case had just become.

"Could you please explain to me what's going on?"

As he followed Peter into the hallway his eyes never left Megan's. She was silently pleading for his help, pleading for a way out. He watched through the one way mirror as she collapsed back into the chair in defeat.

"Neal-"

That was enough of a warning for Neal to know that he needed to tell the truth on this one. Without taking his eyes off of Megan, he explained:

"We were best friends in high school. For four years we were constantly by each other's side, you couldn't separate us."

"High school sweethearts?" Peter guessed.

Neal was relieved to catch a hint of sympathy in his tone, as Peter was obviously understanding how very personal this was becoming for him.

"We never dated," Neal admitted, "we would have been disgusted if you even suggested that we should. But she was the one person who I really thought would make it. She was amazing. We were planning to go to college together."

"Until you dropped out of high school," Peter finished.

"Yeah." At last he took his eyes off of her and dropped his head to the ground, too ashamed to look at anyone as he admitted: "I let her down, Peter. Back then, I was different. And Megan, she excelled at everything she tried. She was an excellent painter, her voice is stunning, and she was first violin throughout middle school and high school. She was offered a music scholarship to Berkeley."

"Impressive," Peter admitted, "did you get in?"

Neal shrugged.

"I didn't stick around long enough to find out." He finally turned to Peter. "Peter, Megan was really bright. She's not stupid enough to get caught up in all of this. This isn't her. She has to be in trouble. Look at her, she's terrified."

"Yeah, because she knows she's about to get sent to prison," Peter said.

Horrified, Neal pleaded:

"Just hear her out," Neal said, "if you do, I'll tell you everything. Please Peter, she deserves this. Trust me."

Peter looked convinced at the promise of "I'll tell you everything", but he also was clearly concerned. Neal knew why, before Peter even said anything, but he didn't want to believe it.

"People change, Neal. You haven't spoken to this girl since you were eighteen."

Neal's eyes drifted back to Megan, who was staring out the window, to the world she had just left behind. She had too much to leave behind.

"I know," Neal said, "but I can't accept that...that..."

"She's like you?"

Neal looked at him, and his heart sank as he nodded.

"Okay then," Peter said, "but a promise is a promise."

Taking a deep breath, Neal replied:

"I know."

He closed his eyes briefly before stepping back into the room. Eyes, closed, in his mind it was 2002 and he was parked across from Megan's house, debating on whether or not he should say goodbye. He could still feel the tear falling down his face- it was one of the few times he could remember crying. At that moment, Neal had faced the two roads that Peter had spoken to him about. At that moment, he could have run inside and allowed Megan to convince him to change his mind. Instead he had been a coward and had chosen running away. From everything. Forever.

At last he stepped back into the room, bracing himself for Megan's story.

"I know who you are, Neal Caffrey," she said. "I know exactly who you are. You've changed, so much. I read about you in the papers and...I can't believe that was the same guy who used to lecture Mr. Thompson about how his astronomy theories were wrong. I never understood why you left San Francisco, and I hated you for that for a long time."

Neal's eyes once again fell to the ground in shame; worse, he knew Peter was looking over at him, analyzing his every reaction.

"Then I began to envy you," she admitted, "I struggled for so long to find a career in music. I even tried teaching music, and that didn't work out. I was desperate for money, and yet here you were, running all over the globe collecting millions like you're a kid getting free candy on Halloween. I finally got a job in an art history museum in Oregon, but soon it drove me crazy knowing that all this art- worth imillions/i was just sitting here. I honestly began to see why you did what you did."

"Great," Peter muttered, "we're trying to bring logic into this, now?"

"One day this French guy came in and began discussing this painting. He told me about how he figured out it belong to his great-great-grandmother or something, but the museum was refusing to hand it over to his family. He said he'd give anything to have that painting back in the family. So I...I stole it. It was actually surprisingly easy. I left the painting with the man, and he handed me a check for $500,000. It turned out the painting was worth three times that, as I found out on the news, but that was more money than I had ever dreamed of having. I fled the west coast, left the country, and found many other clients with the same problem."

"Clients?" Peter repeated. "So you're what, the Robin Hood of art thieves?"

Megan grinned a little.

"I guess you could say that."

Peter glanced towards Neal, expressing how unconvincing this was. Neal ignored him, as he understood exactly what Megan meant.

"We've had our fair share of modern day Robin Hoods," Peter said, "they usually think they can get around the law just because somewhere along the way they gave a couple of dollars to someone else. In the end, I don't get it. You live to risk your life to help steal other people's stuff?"

"You wouldn't get it," Neal said. He smiled a little, grateful for a shot at some comic relief. Peter didn't return the smile.

"The plan went great for awhile," Megan continued, "I got to go to Paris, Dublin, Egypt- all these amazing places I had only dreamt of going. But then I got in over my head."

"See-"

Megan cut him off before Neal could finish his "I told you so".

"A man in Italy offered me three million US dollars to steal back a painting that belonged to his great-great grandfather. The painting was worth three times that much. I demanded half the cash up front because the job required living in Belgium for three months. I was tracking a lawyer who had been inheriting paintings by forging legal documents. Two months in, he recognized my face from the papers. He kidnapped me, held me for days."

She held out her arm, revealing a sharp black bruise that was refusing to heal. Neal turned away quickly, sick at the thought of someone hurting her.

"Finally he told me he had a way for me to redeem myself," she continued, "he was going to send me back to America. I was to send the Italian man his money back, saying that I had failed, and I was to go to New York to recover two million worth of stolen goods that belonged to his brother's museum. He said that if I did not accomplish this then he would turn me into the proper authorities and make sure I go to prison. When I got to New York I...I immediately felt homesick for California. I cried myself to sleep every night. I just wanted a way out. I thought I might be able to buy my way out if I came up with the money on my own. I started to meet people, started to ask around, and I get this guy talking in this bar, and he starts going on and on about all this money he and his buddy stashed away a couple of decades ago. So I went the next morning and, well, you know what happened after that."

Silence fell between them as Neal and Megan stared at each other, she obviously pleading for him to understand. Neal wanted to, he ireally/i wanted to.

"That doesn't help the fact that you held a bank manager at gunpoint," Peter pointed out, "not to mention this whole list of other white collar crimes you're allegedly responsible for as well."

"I'm not that person anymore," Megan said, her eyes watering, "I swear, I wanted to get out of this mess as quickly as possible. Turns out, I'm no Neal Caffrey."

Neal didn't reply. He didn't want to think of Megan becoming a criminal- it was like a former alcoholic father learning that his son was now an alcoholic.

"The man from Belgium, how was he going to contact you?" Peter said. "What will happen when he doesn't get his two million?"

Megan's eyes widen in terror; she began to frantically shake her head in protest.

"That can't happen!" Megan said. "You've got to protect me, please! I'll confess to it, confess to everything. Just please, protect me from him. This man, whoever he is, he's powerful. He's dangerous. I know I've done wrong, but I had good intentions. Well, at least this week I did."

"Oh you'll be protected," Peter said, standing up, "in prison."

"No!" Neal and Megan cried at the same time.

"Peter-"

"Neal," Peter said before he had the chance to protest, "I'm not negotiating with art thieves."

Neal had to hold himself back from laughing at the irony.

"Anymore," Peter corrected, "I'm not negotiating with art thieves anymore. It's my New Year's resolution."

"Peter." Neal stepped over to the side; Peter followed. "Do you know what my New Year's resolution was?"

"Hide billions of dollars of stolen treasure and escape from New York without giving a second thought to the poor souls at the F.B.I. who have done so much for you?"

Neal stared at him.

"Feel better?" He shot.

"Actually, I do," Peter said, "Neal, I don't know this girl. You hardly know her now. She got herself caught up in a bad situation, but she knew of the risks when she took on this _career_."

"But she just happens to be trying to break into the safety deposit box that belonged to my father?" Neal said. "And who was it that told her about that? Peter, I have to know. Someone left me that postcard, and I think it was a message. A message about my father. Maybe there's more to his story than I know, than anyone knows."

He bit his lip, restraining himself from saying anything else. Peter still didn't know the details about his father, and maybe because of that he wouldn't understand, but Neal couldn't let this opportunity go. If there was a chance, iany/i chance that maybe his father wasn't as bad as he thought, he wanted to take that chance. Even if it meant getting hurt; even if it meant having to work with Peter on this.

"Fine," Peter finally replied, "but only because I know if I don't you'll go off on your own to figure this out."

Neal nodded, grateful.

"Thank you, Peter."

Of course, that didn't mean that he wasn't going to look into this on his own anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** Thanks for reading and reviewing!

**Chapter Three**

* * *

><p>"Peter? Peter, sweetie, wake up."<p>

Peter jumped up, gasping for breath as he awoke from his nightmare. He looked around, feeling as though he were in a haze, and realized that it was only 8 PM and he had fallen asleep on the couch. Letting out a sigh of relief, he moved over so that Elizabeth could sit next to him.

"You must have fallen asleep watching the game," Elizabeth explained, "I just got home."

She ran a hand through his hair- her way of trying to calm him down. Embarrassed, he swatted the hand away.

"I wasn't asleep," he lied, "I was just praying. Praying that we were going to win."

"Well it didn't work."

Elizabeth pointed to the score on the screen. His team had lost by ten.

"Damn," he muttered. Could nothing go right anymore?

He relaxed back into his seat and closed his eyes even though he knew Elizabeth was still watching him. The nightmare had just been so _real_. He hadn't had a decent night of sleep in the past few days, and any moment he was able to finally drift into sleep he was quickly met with some of the worst nightmares he had ever experienced.

The dreams were surreal, like he was trapped in a horror movie that played over and over again in his mind. In his dreams he could _feel_ his fear, hear his heart pounding. When Neal looked at him from where he had been knocked to the ground, Peter could feel his desperation. Because of these dreams he eventually avoided going to sleep, but the monotone of announcers discussing the history of the different basketball players rang like a lullaby in his ears. Before he could save himself he found himself fighting Keller again, with Keller's taunting repeating over and over again in his mind.

"What's wrong?" Elizabeth demanded.

Shaking his head, Peter knew it was time to pull himself out of this. For Elizabeth's sake.

"Nothing, it's just been a long day," he said. "How was your day?"

As he turned to her she avoided his eyes, as she had been doing whenever it was just the two of them and he was obviously trying to find out how she has been doing.

"Good."

That was it. No funny stories about a client, no ranting about how someone didn't show up on time. He held a hand to her cheek, and Elizabeth placed her palm on top of his. She offered him a soft smile, a silent "I don't want to talk about it", and he accepted that, knowing that when she was ready she would talk. He decided then that he needed to take his mind off Keller, and thought that Elizabeth could help him work through his other problem: Neal. When he wasn't awake at night worrying about his wife or about where Keller was, he was thinking about Neal and what he should tell the F.B.I. about the treasure.

"Something came up at work today about Neal's past," Peter admitted, "questions are surfacing about his father."

At Elizabeth's confused reaction, he remembered that she wasn't there when Neal admitted to him that his father was a dirty cop.

"What about his father?" She asked.

Peter shrugged.

"I haven't learned much yet," he said, "I offered Neal the chance to talk to me first. I don't like the idea of fishing around his past with him walking around the office at the same time."

"Has he told you anything?" Elizabeth asked.

He decided it would be better to keep Neal's secret a secret, at least for now.

"A little," Peter said, "and now something's come up about an old friend of his, and he's trying to get me to help her out. He's willing to put all his faith into me, but I just don't know if I can trust him again so soon."

"Well." Elizabeth sat back and crossed her arms, the way she always did whenever she was considering options. "The fact that he's willing to open up to you about his past shows loyalty. You two will probably be closer after a case like this. You'll be like real friends, learning about each other."

"We're not really _friends_," Peter protested. He hated when people used that term because he hated admitting that deep down, Neal was one of the closest things he had to a friend in awhile. "I think that he's going to open up some old wounds that he's not ready to deal with yet. When people look into these kinds of things they're usually not going to find the answers they're looking for."

"Yeah, but he has to know," Elizabeth pointed out, "maybe he's looking for closure. Maybe, after he finds whatever answers he discovers, he'll finally be able to accept whatever happened to him. Maybe whatever's behind all this is the reason why he became a criminal in the first place. And maybe when he finds his answers, he won't feel the need to live that kind of life anymore. Maybe this will help Neal find the kind of redemption he's been looking for all this time."

Keeping silent, Peter considered Elizabeth's words, wondering how he hadn't thought of them first. He had never considered Peter as the tortured-soul type. Sure Neal had his history with Kate, but there never seemed to be an ulterior motive to his crimes. In fact, Peter had always just assumed that Neal was a criminal because he _enjoyed_ being a criminal. The smile that would cross Neal's face whenever he got the chance to step back into his old art thief shoes was akin to the smile a baseball player wore whenever he stepped onto a baseball diamond. He never considered the method to Neal's madness, and the more he thought about what Elizabeth was saying the more he thought he was wrong for not considering Neal's past when he was tracking him down in the first place.

* * *

><p>Neal's hand shook as he poured himself a glass of wine. There was a slight hesitation to his step as he went back to where Mozzie was sitting at the table, looking rather uncomfortable himself. Before Mozzie was an unopened police file. Mozzie was staring at it like opening the file might unleash a disastrous curse on them.<p>

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Mozzie asked for the dozenth time.

"Yes," Neal said, taking a sip of the wine.

"This comes from one of my most secret sources," Mozzie admitted, "I only go to this source under the most dire of circumstances. It's not a source to be taken advantage of, and it's not a source that I can continue to use multiple times."

"I understand, Mozzie, can we just get on with this?"

His friend still looked uncertain, but the desperation in Neal's eyes must have been convincing enough. When he glanced at his watch Neal was surprised to see that it was only 8 PM. Had it really only been less than twelve hours since seeing Megan for the first time in ten years? Since finding out about his father's money?

"You won't like whatever you find in this file-"

"I know!"

Neal sighed, feeling guilty. He knew his friend was only trying to protect him, but this was a tragedy he had lived with for twenty-five years. He was certain that he had lived through every possible emotion when it came to his father.

"I'm sorry," Neal said, "I appreciate you taking this risk, you have no idea how much this means to me."

Mozzie still didn't look convinced.

"Are you sure you want to do this without the Suit?" Mozzie said. "Even I know how serious he was when he gave you a another chance by not turning you in again. If it's freedom that you're looking for, going behind his back is not the way to find it."

"Just open the damn file."

He reached for the file himself and turned to the first page. His heart stopped when he saw the image on the photograph: his father, dead, and a coroner's report.

"Neal-"

If Mozzie said anything else he didn't know. Neal was entranced by the horrible images, the twenty-five year old writing that explained what happened that night. The names of the other victims. He was aware of a sour feeling building up in his stomach, but he refused to turn away from the file as he studied every word.

"He came to New York looking to sell," Neal said, his words feeling as though they were stuck to his throat, struggling to escape, "his original crime was at an abandoned warehouse. After the trade he shot the men and took the drugs too. The money was placed along with the profits from other sales in a safety deposit box, where he had planned to collect it the next morning. But the cops caught him a couple of blocks away. He tried to escape. They shot him, dead."

He was aware that his mouth was left hanging open in shock. Running a hand through his hair, Neal tried not to panic. For years he had never known the exact circumstances under which his father had died. He knew there had been other victims, and he knew he had been shot by the police. But even he didn't know the extent his father had gone to keep up with his criminal habits- fleeing to the other side of the country, leaving his family behind, even murder. And why didn't he hide that money instead of putting in a bank? Why didn't he just leave New York that night?

Now he thought that he might actually be sick.

"Do you need some time alone?" Mozzie asked.

Neal shook his head. He couldn't be alone. If he were alone he'd probably tear apart the apartment in anger. He would do something stupid. Knowing these vague facts and managing to live with them for years was a

far different game than seeing the pictures, seeing the names. Now everything was so real, and there was no turning back. He would have to confront Peter with this.

"Neal, there's something else," Mozzie said, "when your father purchased the plane ticket to New York he actually purchased two tickets. They never found who received the other ticket."

Neal looked at him, his mind beginning to work in a different direction now.

"He had a partner?" Neal said.

He had never considered that. It was the most obvious solution, and in over twenty-five years it had never crossed his mind.

Mozzie nodded.

"Apparently so," Mozzie said, "and since the partner was never found he's still out there."

Neal didn't respond. His father had a partner, and sometimes partners could be threatening. Sometimes partners were behind it all. Maybe it was his father's partner who had talked him into this mess in the first place, and maybe his father was honestly trying to pay his way out of the ordeal. Maybe it was the partner who shot the men in the warehouse. The partner was still out there, somewhere, holding all of the secrets to his father's death.

"The man at the bar," Neal said to himself.

"What?"

"Megan mentioned a man at a bar who told her where the money was," Neal explained. He stood up and began to pace the room, ignoring the fact that the only light was from the moon that was shining through the window and the faint dancing lights of the New York skyline. "She said she couldn't

find out anything about him, but she told me where he was. The Black Horse Bar. I know exactly where it is."

Without thinking he grabbed his coat, and he would have left the room if Mozzie hadn't stopped him.

"Your anklet?" Mozzie pointed out. "Besides, The Black Horse closed down three years ago."

Neal spun around, stunned that he had let such facts slip his mind.

"Really?"

Mozzie shrugged.

"Economic troubles," he replied.

Sighing in defeat, Neal sat back down at the table, his eyes wondering again to the file. He would never be able to get those images out of his head.

"I'll talk to Peter tomorrow," Neal said, "I'll keep the file, and you look into that plane ticket."

* * *

><p>Peter showed up at work early the next morning to talk to Megan on his own. Even if Neal had the right to be apart of this, any agent would know that his involvement had the potential to compromise the case.<p>

When he stepped into the interrogation room he wasn't surprised to see how exhausted Megan was. She was scratching at a thick cut on her arm, one that was probably from her alleged kidnapping, but he knew she was just trying to win his sympathy. Megan looked up as the door shut, and her eyes darted around the room, searching for Neal.

"Neal's not with you?" She asked.

"Apparently not," Peter said. He sat a cup of coffee in front of her. "I'm sure you've had plenty of time to think your story over. I came in this morning to see if you wanted to change anything about it- if you wanted to tell me the story I would have heard had Neal not been there."

He sat down across from her, placing her case file in front of him. Peter folded his hands and tried to make eye contact. She stared back at him, unintimidated.

"I did not lie because Neal was there," Megan said, "I haven't seen him since I was eighteen years old. I was only so surprised because seeing him was like seeing a ghost."

"Neal told me a little about you two," Peter said, "and frankly, I don't care. Whatever happened between you two is not my business. What is my business is that you're wanted for more than a dozen white collar crimes. You're responsible for millions of dollars worth of missing art. Now, obviously something has happened to you, and I'm giving you this chance to tell the absolute truth. It's the only way I can help you. If you don't trust me then just ask Neal about all I've done for him."

Peter restrained himself from sounding any more bitter; Megan was catching onto the tension that was between them and if she found out, she might use that to her advantage. He wanted this to be just like a normal case- although he knew this was far from normal.

"I told you the truth," Megan stated flatly.

"Do you have a partner?" He challenged.

Megan shook her head.

"Like I would go through all that trouble just to share my earnings," she said, "being a criminal is easier than you think. You just have to find people stupid enough to fool, and the world is full of stupid people."

He began to place photos from various crime scenes before her, noting how uncomfortable she looked at seeing the stolen art.

"You're telling me that on your own you've managed to steal from a dozen billionaires, from a half a dozen different countries around the world? You were able to secure aliases, set up undercover missions, and escape on your own? Who did you learn from?"

Megan shrugged.

"I learned as I went along," Megan said, "like I said, it was easy. Maybe the reason Neal got caught is that he got too involved with his _entourage_."

Peter was surprised to hear the bitterness in her own words. Her eyes flashed with resentment, and Peter knew he was right in thinking there was more to this story.

"Well now you're the one that who got caught," Peter pointed out. "Now while you're under F.B.I. custody I can protect you, but once the case moves forward and you're put on trial-"

"Look, you have to believe me!" Megan exclaimed. "All of that was fun for awhile, but I'm the first to admit that I did get in over my head with this one. Investigate all you want on those other cases, but on this one I didn't do anything wrong!"

"Then help me catch the guy who did this to you," Peter said, "do you have a name, location, anything?"

Megan sighed, and her eyes fell to the floor as she considered his offer. At last she replied:

"He's an American lawyer, from New York by the sound of his accent. When he was holding me at his place I caught a glimpse at a piece of mail. David Wilson. I couldn't see the address though."

"That's okay," Peter said as he wrote the information down, "now we know we're looking for a lawyer by that name who's been out of the States, and we know where to look for him."

He stood up, noting the time as he realized Neal would be there soon.

"What about me?" Megan asked.

"We can set up a safe house," he noted her disappointment, "or leaving you in a holding cell would be even cheaper."

"Sorry," Megan said, honestly, "it's just after everything I've been through I don't want to be alone. I won't feel safe."

Grinning, Peter replied:

"Maybe Neal can stop by."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** Thanks for reading and reviewing!

* * *

><p>Neal was waiting in the main office when Peter walked out of the hallway that led to the interrogation room. Their eyes met, and Neal knew Peter hadn't planned to tell him he was going to be questioning Megan. He followed Peter into the office, resisting the urge to slam the door behind him.<p>

"How was Megan?" He asked casually. Leaning back against the wall, he crossed his arms. He gazed out the window, still surprised to see the sunrise after a long night of staring at the night sky.

"I just asked her if she wanted to add anything to her story," Peter said, "Neal, I'm not going behind your back on this one."

Neal swallowed, his nerves returning. He all night thinking of what he would tell Peter, and part of him wondered if he had already ruined his chances of redemption already. What had he been thinking?

"Do you have any dinner plans?" He asked.

Peter looked up at him, surprised.

"Are you asking me out on a date?" Peter teased.

"Seriously, come over tonight," Neal said, "June's told me about this new recipe-"

"Neal."

Neal stopped talking immediately.

"Invitations to your place are rarely a good sign," Peter said, "what's going on?"

Hesitating, Neal regretted every choice he had made in past twenty-four hours. He should have just gone to Peter for help in his father's case- he would have found out anyway. But at last he knew he had to say something, and Neal finally said:

"I got Mozzie to look into my father's death," Neal admitted, "there's something you should see, but I don't think the F.B.I.'s the place."

* * *

><p>Peter didn't want to wait until night, which Neal understood: that would offer too much time for him to change his mind. He met Peter at June's, and when the agent walked into the room, Neal was ready.<p>

"What's all this?" Peter asked.

On the table Neal had set out a single box: the little remains he had from his childhood. He simply nodded towards the box, inviting Peter to take a look. Peter looked at him, uncertain, or perhaps unsure if he wanted to take that risk. Carefully, he sat down and reached in the box for the first item.

"An award?" Peter said, laughing as he held up a medal.

Neal grinned.

"First place for violin in my sixth grade orchestra competition," Neal explained, "it's the only award I've ever won and probably the only honest thing I've been recognized for."

"So you played the violin?" Peter asked, admiring the award.

"I hated the violin," Neal corrected, "but my mother forced me to try it out. She was always trying to get me interested in things: the violin, soccer, football-"

"Now that I would have liked to see," Peter said, laughing again.

"I still have scars!" Neal complained. "Nothing worked. I hated everything. My mom wanted so much for me to have a normal childhood- but now I think what she was really wanted was for me to not become my father."

"And you didn't," Peter said.

Neal shook his head.

"I tried really hard to not let her down," he admitted, "I felt bad that I was such a burden. I finally began drawing when I was 8. Art became a part of me. But I treated art like a lot of writers treat writing- I was terrified to share my art. It was too personal. And of course the one thing I liked my mom disapproved of. She thought I was wasting time, sitting in my room by myself and drawing. She thought it was just another way for me to tune out the world and not make friends. I didn't care, and after that I never cared what she thought again."

"We all go through that phase," Peter said. Leaning back in his chair, Peter took out another item: a photograph of him and his mom at Fisherman's Wharf from twenty years ago. "You should have seen me when I was a teenager. My friends and I thought we were going to be as big as the Beatles."

Neal laughed, despite the sadness that was choking him.

"How did that turn out?"

Peter shrugged.

"I joined the F.B.I., our drummer now owns a chain of burger restaurants in Florida, and the bass player teaches music history at a community college," Peter said, "we played a couple of birthday parties and decided to part ways."

"Probably for the best," Neal teased, "Elizabeth told me about your kareoke date last month."

"I told her not to tell anyone about that!" Peter said, laughing. "My point is, my mother was terrified that music was going to do nothing but lead me down a path of drugs and alcohol. The main reason I was determined to be in a band was because that was exactly what my mother did _not _want me to do. We all do that." Peter paused; he was now admiring a faded drawing of what Neal knew to be his family's cat from when he was 9. "So you've really kept all this stuff with you all these years, even though you've been around the world and back and in prison for the past 10 years?"

"Peter, I've hidden billions of dollars worth of stolen art," he pointed out, "I think I can manage some childhood memorabilia."

"Right," Peter said. He paused, studying Neal for a moment before continuing: "Why are you showing me this?"

"Because." Neal took a deep breath before pulling out the file on his father's case. "Before I show you this, I wanted you to know that I had absolutely no idea how bad it was. The details I knew were nothing as big as this. And I wanted you to know that I tried, Peter, I tried not to become him. Now I wish I had tried harder."

As he passed Peter the file he closed his eyes, holding his breath as he waited for Peter's reaction. Peter opened the file to the first page, and froze.

"Neal-"

He couldn't find the words to say anything else as he continued to read about the case. Neal knew each and every word Peter was reading. The silence in the room was painfully tense, and he was almost grateful when Peter said:

"How did you get these?"

Peter didn't look up as he continued searching the contents of the folder. Neal couldn't help but to feel a little insulted; he had somehow expected Peter to show a little more sympathy. But he couldn't admit this. He felt pathetic just admitting it to himself.

"I had to look into this, Peter."

"Damn it, Neal!" Peter said. "I thought we agreed, no more secrets."

"Which is why I just sat here, tell you my life story!"

His anger was fueled by the exhaustion of a sleepless night and the frustration, the personal agony, he suddenly had to deal with upon learning about all of this.

"And I appreciate that," Peter said, "but with all due respect this doesn't change the fact that you looked into my eye and promised _again_ that we would work together on this, that there would be no secrets, no Mozzie. I can't help you if you show up with information you've obtained illegally. I'm supposed to stand in front of a panel and swear that I whole-heartedly trust you. You want me to help your friend, and meanwhile I have no idea what you're up to unless I'm looking right at you."

Neal held his breath, fighting not to show any emotion at all. He considered storming out of the room like a child as opposed to listening to Peter's lecturing, but then he remembered this was _his _room. He should be throwing Peter out.

"I'm sorry," Peter said. He must have realized that he sounded at least a little inconsiderate, under the circumstances. "But what did you expect me to say? I want to understand you, I'd like to know you better, but I just don't know if I can trust you. Is there anything else I should know? Is Mozzie going around asking questions he shouldn't be asking?"

"I never said Mozzie was involved," Neal said, shaking an accusing finger.

Standing up, he went to pour himself another glass of wine.

"Want anything to drink?" He asked.

"Yeah."

Once he got the drinks he sat back down; Peter was looking through the file again. When he didn't say anything more, Neal felt obligated to speak.

"My father shot someone for drugs and money," he said, his voice sounding unfamiliar and hollow, "how can I be related to someone like that?"

Taking his eyes off the file for a moment, Peter looked him in the eye.

"You're not your father," Peter repeated.

Neal just shook his head.

"Sometimes I feel like I'm cursed," he admitted, "that this is what I was meant to be. That there could have been no other life for me except a life of crime."

"That's not true, and you know it!"

"Is it?" Neal said. "Peter, the night I found out about my father, Megan and I had been to this party. She had a little too much to drink, and some guys started to try and take advantage of her, so I took her home. We were pulled over and some cops took us in on a DUI charge. They just arrested us, no questions asked. When we got to the station I was stupid enough to think that I could use my father's name to get out of that mess. I told them my father was a cop who died in the line of duty. You know what they did? They laughed in my face. They laughed in my face, and they looked _disgusted_. The only reason we were let go is because one of the older cops took pity on me when he realized I had no idea what was going on. He told me to go home and forget that night ever happened. But how could I? It didn't take much research to find out that my entire life had been a lie."

His palm slapped down on the table, hard, and Neal leaned back in his seat, his mind feeling a bit numb. It was the first time he had told that story since telling Mozzie when he first arrived in New York. He was never even able to bring himself to tell Kate the truth about his past; he worried that it would scare her away.

"I always wondered if they arrested me because they just assumed that I would turn out to be like him," he admitted.

"They were just trying to spite you," Peter said. Neal was surprised at how angry he sounded. "What they did wasn't right, Neal."

Neal's hand was shaking now; his head began pounding again, a painful reminder of the wound that had yet to fade from his fight with Keller.

"I felt so stupid after that," he said, "suddenly everything in my life just made sense. The way my mom always acted, the way no one seemed to like me, even though they didn't know me. I ran, mostly out of anger, but part of me was embarrassed. I needed to get away from that life. I knew why my mother never told me the truth- she probably knew I could never get past it. I left the city the next day, and I didn't talk to my mom until I got to New York. When I did, I just _yelled_ at her. It was horrible. That was the last time I talked to her."

"I always wondered why she wasn't at your trial," Peter admitted, "but you can't blame her for wanting to protect you."

His trial. That seemed like decades ago.

"Peter, there's something else." He took a deep breath, wondering if he would regret all of this tomorrow morning. "When my father came to New York he bought two plane tickets-"

"He had a partner," Peter said, finishing his sentence with the same astonishing realization Neal had earlier.

Neal nodded.

"It may be a long shot, but if there's a chance, _any_ chance, that my father could be innocent, or that he at least shared the blame, or that there's more to this story- Peter, I have to know."

"Neal, usually when people look into these kinds of things they don't turn out like they want it to," Peter warned.

"I know," Neal said quietly, "but I have to know."

Peter nodded, and Neal knew he understood, however much he didn't like the idea of this ending in disappointment.

"Mozzie's already looking into this," Neal admitted. Peter immediately opened his mouth, but Neal explained before Peter got another chance to yell at him. "He has connections that neither you nor I could dream of. You know that. He might be our best chance of finding out who this other guy is."

"Why didn't this partner take the money twenty-five years ago?" Peter said. "Why now?"

Neal shrugged.

"Maybe they never knew where it was," Neal said, "maybe they ran when my father got caught. Who knows."

He tried to think back, considering any connections his family might have had to New York: anyone his mother had ever accidently mentioned, anyone who had ever stopped by or called. But there was no one _this_ suspicious.

Peter stood up, collecting the police files.

"We'll find him," he promised, "and Neal? Thanks."

Neal looked up, surprised.

"So you're not angry with me?" He said, confused.

"Oh, I'm angry," Peter said, "but I also know how important this is to you, and I know how much it meant for you to tell me all of that."

"Guess we should be heading back to the office," Neal said, standing up as well. He felt a bit awkward, just as he feared he might, now that Peter essentially knew his life story.

"No, I can take care of things today," Peter said, "you've been through enough for one day."

"You're kidding yourself if you think you're going to work this case without me," Neal said, "a deal's a deal."

Peter stopped, realizing he had no choice.

"Fine," he sighed half-heartedly, "let's go."


End file.
